Stronger (22 page)

And more and more, they were forcing me to confront something else: that this was forever. All these slights and frustrations, they were my life now.

I hated that. I hated the way the worry crawled up into my mind at odd times and made me self-conscious, and how it was always there in the background, a weight to carry, trying to crush me down.

I didn’t know I had that weight, until Byron and Will helped me carry it. I was inspired by my fellow survivors, because we were in this together. I will never forget the soldiers who visited us at Spaulding, because they made me believe. But Will and Byron were different. They showed me the future. They were ten years down the road, and they were happy. Their lives weren’t crippled at all. Their lives were whatever they wanted them to be.

30.

S
ometime in this period, as I struggled with the
permanence
of my injuries, Erin quit her job. It was a hard decision for her, because it went against her nature. She had been supporting herself since she was twenty years old.

“I’m not the kind of person who would give up everything for someone else,” she confided to Kat.

But she’d already given up so much: her social life, her neighborhood in Boston, her sense of self. When I met Erin, she had known who she was and what she wanted. That was one of the things I loved about her. But now who was she, outside of my caretaker? And how much was she allowed to want?

“I don’t want to give up myself,” she said. “Not forever. Not even for Jeff.”

“You’re not,” Kat said. “You’re a hero in all this, too.”

I still remember Erin’s words from the hospital:
When I saw you smiling, I knew you were still my person. I knew there was nowhere else I wanted to be.

But what did being with me mean? And how much did she have to give up?

“It’s only temporary,” Erin told me. “Until we get everything straightened out. Then I’m going back to work.”

“Whatever you need, my magical wonderful. I’m just happy you’re here.”

It was incredible to have Erin around so much. Nightmares, panic attacks, sudden pain: it was all easier to manage with Erin. She made my life easier in practical ways, too. She helped me with my stretches. She drove me to Spaulding. She helped me put on and take off my legs. I was using a walker now, instead of the parallel bars, so I could practice at home. I tried to walk an hour a day, around and around the tiny apartment. I needed a flat surface. I couldn’t handle grass, or those small pebbles that are always in parking lots. Even the ramp outside Mom’s front door threw off my balance because it changed the angle between my lower leg and foot. Erin made sure I worked every day.

“Don’t get frustrated,” she’d tell me. “You’re doing great.”

We ordered takeout a lot, since neither of us were comfortable cooking in Mom’s kitchen. Sometimes, we ordered takeout three times a day, an admission that still makes Erin almost sick. She was never a fan of takeout, but I found short trips to restaurants even more difficult than longer outings.

The first time Mom and I went to Zesty’s, for instance, it was horrible, and not just because it took five minutes to get out of the car. Mom struggled with the wheelchair, and I was still figuring out how to grip the doorframe and lift myself out.

It was horrible because I’d been going to Zesty’s forever, and I had known the people there for most of my life. They knew me in sixth grade, when all the kids would come to Mom’s apartment complex to play manhunt, because the complex was huge and Mom always let us stay up late. They knew me when I was an expert on every free playground in Chelmsford, and when Sully spun a one-eighty trying to drag race a Saturn down a winding road. One time, Mom took me to Zesty’s to buy chicken fingers. Mom didn’t have enough money, and her credit card was declined. They gave me the chicken fingers anyway.

“You can pay us later,” they told Mom. They didn’t have to do that for us, but they did, and that’s why I’ll never forget it.

And now, after all those years, Zesty’s felt different. They were incredibly nice. They all wanted to talk. They wanted to tell me how proud they were of my bravery, my attitude, my helping catch the bombers.

Terrible. Those animals. Boston Strong.

I smiled and laughed, but inside I was dying. It wasn’t the same. It was like… I wasn’t one of them anymore. I was a freak. It was a homecoming, but I just wanted to go home.

Mom didn’t understand. She was upset that I hadn’t been more social. “They care about you, Jeff.” She made me feel guilty. Or maybe I should say more guilty than I already felt.

It wasn’t just that everyone was nice; they gave me stuff, too. Free food. Free beer. Restaurants had pictures of me on the walls, alongside their Boston Strong banners. I don’t see that as much now, but that summer, when the bombing was fresh, Boston Strong and I were everywhere. The Brickhouse even had a huge framed photo of me throwing the first pitch at the Sox game. It’s still there. I love it. It’s in the men’s bathroom, though, and that makes it awkward. Public bathrooms are tough enough in a wheelchair. It doesn’t help when you’re staring at yourself from the wall.

Thank God the Hong Kong had three steps outside the front door. I never had to worry about accidently ending up in there.

Erin understood my frustration. “You don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with,” she told me. “You don’t owe anyone anything.”

She always told me that:
You don’t owe anyone, not friends, not the media, not Boston. You need to focus on yourself.

But I wasn’t so sure.

A few days before Erin quit her job, the Boston Bruins had called again. The team had made an unexpected run to the Stanley Cup Finals against the Chicago Blackhawks. It was a best-of-seven series, and the two teams had split the first four games. Win or lose the next one, they would be back in Boston on Monday for a pivotal Game 6.

My last appearance as flag captain had gone well. The crowd loved it. “We got so many e-mails and tweets,” the media rep said. “It was the most inspirational flag ceremony we’ve ever done.” The Bruins wanted me to come back and recapture the magic. But with one twist: they wanted me to walk.

Not a chance.

I mean, I was doing pretty well with the walker. I hadn’t fallen once. But that had been for only a week, and only at the Spaulding gym and around the apartment. I still had to concentrate on every step. Ten steps still crushed me.

There was no way I could walk out in front of thirty thousand people. No way.

I had to tell the Bruins no, but I felt so badly about it. I felt like I was letting everyone down. This was Game 6! A championship was on the line! Obviously, people thought I could walk. They just
assumed
it. Maybe that’s because they knew people who had lost both their legs and walked two months later?

Maybe, I thought, that’s because I’m behind.

The Bruins called back. They had changed the plan: now they just wanted me to stand.

That night, Erin, Mom, and I argued. Or more precisely, Erin and Mom argued. Erin said what she always said: that I shouldn’t feel pressured to do something I wasn’t comfortable with, and that standing in front of a crowd, on television, was clearly
too much
. She was angry, I think, at the Bruins. She felt they were pushing me too hard.

Mom said I had to do it. I was a symbol of hope and courage. I had to do everything I could, not just for the Bruins, but for the city.

I didn’t say anything. I just listened. After a while, I rolled myself into my room and picked up my guitar. After a few minutes, Erin came in and sat with me. She rubbed my back.

“It’s your decision, Jeff,” she said.

Mom must have been upset, because she started drinking. By midnight, she was outside my locked bedroom door, yelling that I couldn’t let this opportunity pass, that I had to help while I could. People care now, she said, but it wasn’t always going to be this way.

She’d leave for a while, then come back. Sometimes she was crying. Sometimes she was yelling. Sometimes she’d start out talking, then switch to yelling, then end up in tears. “Something special is happening, Jeff. You are inspiring people. How can you turn them down? How can you say no after what everyone has done for you? You owe them.

“This will be over soon,” she said. “This attention. But your recovery won’t be. It will go on and on. So take the good while you can, Jeff, because the world doesn’t give for long.”

It went on like that for three hours, until Erin and I were exhausted, and Mom had worn herself out.

“Is it like this often?” Erin asked, when the apartment was finally quiet.

I shrugged. It didn’t seem like a big deal. “It’s been like this all my life,” I said.

She hugged me, although I didn’t need it.

“You’re right,” I said. “We should get our own place.”

31.

A
ctually, both Mom and Erin were right. That was what kept me up all night thinking about the Boston Bruins. That and the pain.

I really did need to take care of myself first. That began with my rehabilitation. I needed to work out harder and longer, with even more focus. The first few steps on my artificial legs had been a revelation, but also a false hope. If I can walk ten feet, I thought, then walking a thousand won’t be that hard.

It was harder than I imagined. There were so many things that could go wrong: weakness in my thighs, my upper body being off balance, my leg locking because I stepped on a sloped surface, or, say, a letter that had fallen on the floor. I had given myself a year to learn to walk. To try to walk after only two and a half months, almost ten months before everyone told me it would be possible… it wasn’t realistic.

I needed to be at peace with that. I needed to accept my limitations. Otherwise, I would always be frustrated. Already, I was frustrated every day by what I couldn’t do, by my fear of being in a crowd and my discomfort with people staring at me. It was depressing. When I failed at simple tasks, it made me feel not only different, but less than what I had been.

Did I really need to go in front of thirty thousand people with the sole purpose of standing up, when standing up was so… so nothing to them? And when there was a pretty good chance I couldn’t do it?

On the other hand, the city of Boston had given me so much. Those thirty thousand people at the hockey game had watched my struggles and supported me. They had sent me gifts. If I was a symbol of hope and courage, like so many people said, didn’t I need to embrace that role? Wasn’t it my responsibility to be courageous? To stand up for the city when it called on me?

If I really could make people feel better, how could I refuse?

No, it wasn’t the city calling. It was only a hockey team. But this was
Boston
’s hockey team. And it was the Stanley Cup. How could I pass on a chance to help the Bruins win a championship?

You can make a difference.
That’s what Mom had said to me.
The way you act, Jeff, makes a difference in people’s lives. That’s what they are responding to, your kindness and strength. Maybe you didn’t ask for this, but it’s yours. For now. Show them that no matter what happens in their lives, they can overcome it.

Show us that we matter. That tragedy can make us strong.

I talked about it with my physical therapist, Michelle, at my workout the next day. I could tell she wasn’t for it, and I knew she was right. I wasn’t ready.

But was waiting the best option? Wasn’t she always saying I needed to push myself?

“If I do it, will you come with me?”

This was a big request. I loved Michelle. A lot of people thought she was a hard-ass, especially when they first met her. And she was. She’d push me past my breaking point, and then she’d turn to the next exercise and say, “Keep going. No breaks.” But once you warmed up to her, she was funny. We laughed a lot. She was only trying to help.

But she wasn’t my friend. She was someone I paid to spend time with me. And now I was asking her to give me a whole evening, free of charge.

She didn’t hesitate. “If you want to do this, Jeff, I’ll be there for you.”

This time, I was prepared for the quiet and darkness as Carlos rolled me to the middle of the arena. I was prepared for the flashing lights playing across the ice, the booming announcer, and the sea of people that roared around me as the houselights came on. Michelle was beside me, but I didn’t need her. I grabbed my walker with two hands and pulled myself to a standing position. Carlos waved the Boston Strong flag as I raised my right hand and waved to the crowd.

They went bah-nanas. They were ready. I had given as much as I could.

The Bruins had offered me a luxury box, but I told them I wanted to sit in the crowd this time. We ended up a few rows back, close enough to hear the rattling of the boards and yell at the Blackhawks. Some Watertown cops happened to be sitting a few seats down from us, including their chief of police, Ed Deveau. These guys were in the late-night shoot-out that killed Tamerlan. They were there when the FBI captured Dzhokhar. We were swapping stories the whole time. They were some of the cops who told me, “Don’t ever doubt what you did for the investigation, Jeff. You’re a hero.” But these guys were the heroes. They risked their lives to capture the bombers. By the third period, we were hugging each other. It was an honor to be in the same story as those guys.